Page 7 of Twisted Pact
If Mila Andreeva wants to play games, she’s going to learn that I always win.
3
Mila
I’m pretty sure everyone knows what just happened to me in that garden.
My hands won’t stop shaking as I smooth my dress for the third time. The silk feels different now. Everything does.
I duck into a side bathroom and lock the door behind me.
The mirror shows what I’m afraid of. Flushed cheeks. Smudged makeup. Hair slipping from its careful pins. I look ravaged. It’s humiliating, considering Alexei walked away without a hair out of place.
I splash cold water on my face to get myself together. I fumble with the pearl pins, trying to rebuild the updo that took my stylist an hour to do. The best I can manage is barely presentable. Maybe people will think I just got overheated from dancing.
Except I haven’t danced.
I take a breath and force myself out of the bathroom. The reception is in full swing. Music pours through the ballroom as couples spin across the dance floor. Waiters weave between tables with champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Everyone looks like they’re having the time of their lives.
Everyone except me.
I grab another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. The bubbles tickle my throat, but I welcome the distraction. Anything to stop thinking about the garden.
The way I melted into him. The way I let him take and take.
And how I hated him for stopping.
When Papa finds me, I can’t even look at him.
“There you are,” he says. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I needed some fresh—” I catch myself. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
His eyes skim my face, catching everything I failed to fix. He doesn’t mention it; he just puts a hand on my back and steers me toward a quiet corner. “We need to talk about the opportunities tonight.”
“Opportunities?”
“Don’t play stupid, Mila. It doesn’t suit you. Several people have already approached me about arrangements. The Kozlovs aren’t the only family seeking alliances.”
My stomach drops. “I’m not interested in being married off.”
“Your interests don’t matter when the family’s survival is at stake.”
I’ve heard versions of this speech my whole life, but it sounds different tonight. Desperate. Like the window for escape is slamming shut.
“Papa, I have one year left before I finish my doctorate. Just let me?—”
“Your mother had dreams, too. She wanted to open an art gallery. Spend her days surrounded by beauty instead of blood. But she understood that being part of this family means making sacrifices.”
I drain the rest of my champagne and set the empty glass on a nearby table. “And look what happened there. Not such a happy ending, is it?”
“Your mother left because she was weak.” He says it without emotion, like he’s talking about the weather. “She abandoned her family when we needed her most. Walked out after your sister’s disgrace and never looked back. Do you have any idea what that did to our reputation? Our credibility?”
“She was hurting. We all were.”
“Pain is not an excuse for desertion.” He pulls out his phone and checks something before continuing. “Your mother chose herself over her family. I won’t allow you to do the same.”
The comparison makes something ache in my chest. I haven’t spoken to Mama since she left. Haven’t answered her calls or replied to her emails. Part of me blames her for abandoning us during the worst crisis our family has faced. But another part gets why she couldn’t stay.
